


Against

by belial



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 08:26:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belial/pseuds/belial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anniversaries are tricky in the Moriarity/Moran household.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Against

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This, like all of my other fics, is completely FALSE. Sherlock is property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the TV series is property of the BBC.  
> Spoilers/Warnings: None. Jim’s POV.

It’s the smell of coffee that wakes me; six-thirty in the fucking morning on a rare day that I could sleep, but coffee ( _coffee, coffee, coffee_ ) tickles my nose and I’m up, stretching the kinks out and bounding down the hallway toward the kitchen. “Sebastian!” I shout, but a fat lot of good it does me once I realize he’s out, off to a job I sent him on to get him the hell out of the bloody flat before he made me crazy. 

Six months of fucking and he’s a stickler for the romance. Bloody assassin.

I reach the kitchen, grab a cup from the counter and a few biscuits from the tin, lean across the counter to get the pot of coffee. Which is when I see it: a box the size of the breadbox, wrapped in blood-red paper with a ridiculous black bow on it. I snort and roll my eyes and pour the coffee, sipping at it, not caring that it’s burning my tongue. Once I get enough caffeine in me to keep the sleep away, I tug at the ribbon to reveal the prezzie beneath.

It takes me a second to realize what I’m looking at, but when it hits me, I can’t help but grin. I pick up my I-Phone and start texting my lover. 

_Any reason I got a severed digit in a box?_

Moments pass; then: _I figured you’d give me the finger if I said happy anniversary, so I decided to finger you first._

I can’t help the giggle that escapes upon his reply; instead of texting again, I dial, and wait to hear his voice.

I’m not disappointed when he says, “Good morning, Jamie.”

“I thought we agreed the next time you called me that, I’d put a bullet in you?” I ask, scowling at the phone. “I hate it when you call me that. Do I look like a Jamie to you?”

“Yes,” he replies. “You act the professional, and it’s ‘Jim’. You act the lunatic, and it’s ‘James’. You scare the piss out of people, and it’s ‘Moriarity’, but to me, you’ll always be my Jamie.”

“I’m contracting someone to assassinate you,” I threaten, and he chuckles in my ear. “I mean it this time!”

“Okay,” he says, easily, as if I’m not the scariest consulting criminal in all of London. His voice drops and he adds, “But then you’ll have to sleep by yourself in that big bed, with no one to curl around you with his hand on your cock, owning you.”

I shudder. “You fuck,” I croak.

“You love me.”

The worst of it is, he’s right. If I had to claim a weakness – other than my constant feuding with the Holmes boys – it would be Sebastian; his dark eyes, and evil smile, and even the stupid boyish spikes of his hair. “I could’ve done worse, I suppose,” I admit. Though I’ll never say the words back, he already knows. Damn it.

He laughs again, says, “While I’m talking to you, I want you to look at that finger. That finger once resided on the hand of Dalton Brown, and I promise you that he won’t be causing you any issues again.”

“You dispatched him?”

“And took a small trophy to present to you. I know it made you smile.”

“Your inane, lower-level sense of humor made me smile, Sebastian,” I return. “Finger me, indeed.”

“Later, love. I promise, lots of goodies for our six-month…”

“La-la-la!” I half-shout into the phone, cutting him off before he can say anything else. “Can’t hear you, connection’s getting dim, tah-tah now!”

I hang up on him, glaring at the phone and the box and the toaster – because I can see my reflection in the toaster, and I’m glaring at myself for good measure. “Falling all over yourself, for an employee,” I scold the appliance. “Idiot.”

My phone chimes a new message; it says, _A driver will be picking you up at eight… go with the man. Turst me._

His typo makes me think all sorts of dirty, delicious things - tursting, a new way to disembowel someone? – but I can’t quite get onboard with handing myself off to some random chap in a car service. _How am I to recognize this fellow as someone to trust?_

_He’s going to call U Jamie. And stop making that face, U no U love it._

I look at the toaster again; and yes, I _am_ making a face of sheer disgust and annoyance. Damn that man for knowing me so well!

I stomp out of the kitchen, finger and coffee and phone forgotten as I go to take a shower, preparing for whatever lunacy Sebastian thought up for me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I may have underestimated my lover. I’m face-down on the table, hands gripping tightly to a padded bar, groaning and straining against the hands touching me.

“You all right, sir?” the masseuse asks, as she works a particularly bad knot out of my right shoulder. “You sound in pain, there.”

“Noooooo…” I say, arching as she touches a spot under my ribs. “Oh, no… please… don’t stop, it feels so good…”

She laughs. “Right then.”

The car service had dropped me round a place called Annabeth’s, an upscale spa that catered to London’s best. The visit had started with a pedicure, a manicure, and a cleansing facial, followed by a lovely pasta primavera for lunch. 

I’m now in the hands of Margaritte, a tiny French woman with the upper-body strength of a Samurai. I have no idea how long she’s been working on me, but I know with certainty that I never, ever want her to stop.

“Is this a better gift than a Westwood?” a deep voice asks, from behind me.

I twist my head and blink at my lover, who’s leaning on the wall behind Margaritte’s back. She doesn’t seem surprised to see him there; I, on the other hand, am amazed. “I didn’t think to see you before tonight,” I say, raising an eyebrow in question.

He grins, that slow movement of lips that makes my heart pound. “Got done with work early. Wanted to come see you, make sure you were enjoying your gift.”

“It’s passable,” I say, just for the joy of being contrary.

He shakes his head, but the smile never leaves him. “Shame. Margaritte, would you please excuse us?”

She gives him a curt bob of the head, ignoring my protests and disappearing from the room. “You bastard! I wasn’t done!”

“Shush.”

“But…!”

He pushes away from the wall, walks over to the table and places one of his warm, huge hands in the center of my back. “Hush, I said.”

I go silent and glare at him instead. He chuckles, bends down so his mouth’s next to my ear. “Love the way you listen to me,” he breathes, nipping my earlobe with his teeth. “Don’t do that for anyone else, do you?”

I can’t answer; he slides his fingers down my back and dips them under the towel that covers my bare bum. Those wicked, talented fingers slide into the crack of my cheeks, ghosting over my hole. “You’re all oil-slick,” he whispers, and I whine in an embarrassing manner. “Slick and loose, your whole body’s relaxed, isn’t it? Open and ready to take a little more, yeah?”

I shudder, mouth open but no words coming out. He uses his other hand to cup my chin and I’m opening to his kiss before he moves. “That’s right,” he purrs. “This is all about feeling good. How long’s it been since you pampered yourself like this, worrying about nothing but feeling good?”

“I… I don’t know?”

The fingers slipping alongside my hole move, pulling the towel away and baring me for his view. “Your body’s so gorgeous,” he says, kissing my nose. “Look at you, sweetheart, laid out for me like some sort of prize.”

“I’m…”

But I don’t get to finish; he swallows my words with his tongue, then moves and presses gentle kisses down my spine, lower and lower until he says, “Spread for me.”

I part my legs without shame, frightened to realize how much I would gladly give to this man, to let him take me in a public place, with me naked and him completely dressed, me handing over all of that power to him without even a thought about it and…

“Oh, fuck, Sebastian,” I gasp, as his tongue licks into my body. “Fuck, Bastian, fuck-fuck-fuck…”

“Shh,” he says, pulling his mouth away. He grins as I look over my shoulder at him. “Unless you want people running in here to watch, love, you’re going to have to stay quiet, yeah?”

Quiet and I have never been on good terms. Sebastian knows this, but he gives me such a challenging look that I can’t think to disagree. Damn him. “Fine,” I say, and squirm on the table. “I’ll be quiet.”

“Good.”

He sounds so smug I want to punch him in the face, but since he puts his tongue back in my ass, I won’t complain. He doesn’t meet a lot of resistance, after all the pampering; I’m too boneless, touch-drunk and pleased to fight off any of his advances, even if I didn’t want them. 

My problem? I’ve never not wanted them. 

“You remember that finger I sent you earlier?”

I smile drowsily at him, hum a noise in agreement. He says, “I’m going to give you a better finger now, Jamie-love.”

His middle finger is my favorite; long enough to reach my prostate, thick ‘round the base but lean at the tip. Much too short to be his prick, but a perfect warm-up for it. And when he pushes that finger into my spit-soaked hole, it’s all I can do not to whimper for him. “More,” I demand, arching my hips. “More…”

One finger becomes two, his mouth pressing kisses into the cheeks of my bum as he stretches and strokes my insides. “Turn over,” he softly commands, and I ease over onto my back, careful not to dislodge myself from the table or his fingers from my ass. “Good, love.”

“I’m not a pet,” I complain, but he wiggles his fingers and I lose my train of thought. “Sebastian…”

“I’m your pet though, aren’t I?” he asks, and I have no idea how he’s done it, but he’s leaning over my cock, lapping at the head, and I’m ready to cry for how good it feels. “I’m your tiger, aren’t I? All rough tongue and sharp claws?”

He licks again and I bite my lip hard enough to make it bleed. “No, baby,” he coos. “Don’t make yourself bleed for me. Just take what I’m giving you.”

“I can’t…”

“You can,” he disagrees, and I whine as he suckles my prick again. “God, you’re lovely.”

“Bastian, please,” I mumble, lifting my hips. “Suck me, want your mouth.”

He gives in, then – takes me into his throat and stretches his fingers apart, nudging my prostate. It takes me an embarrassingly short time to come, and I don’t manage to do it quietly, either.

By the time the room stops spinning, I realize he’s snickering at my complete loss of control. “Shut up,” I say, and cover my eyes with my arm. “You’re a horrible man.”

“Pot, kettle,” he teases. “Screaming my name like that…”

I don’t reply, lie there and enjoy my afterglow. He’s not touching me anymore, and it’s okay, because I use the hand not hiding my face to reach out and grope for him. And when I make contact, it’s because he’s tangled his fingers with mine.

“Are you really trying to hold my fucking hand?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s disgusting,” I complain, though I am secretly thrilled at the idea of this mild-version snuggling.

“I know you hate it,” he murmurs, and I grin at him. “You absolutely loathe the touching, don’t you, Jim?”

“Jim’s not here right now,” I say, and pull him closer. “Only Jamie.”

His smile blinds me as his mouth crashes over mine for a kiss. “Happy anniversary.”

“You too,” I reply. “Damn you.”

He laughs. “Never change, James Moriarity. I love you just as you are.”

“Hmmph,” I mumble, but can’t stop the idiotic smile on my face. Giving in, I say, “Me too.”

Stupid anniversary – though I can’t wait to see what he does when we hit a year… 

~Fin~


End file.
